


Pumpkin Spice Latte

by WilwyWaylan



Series: Feuilly Week [6]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Feuilly-centric, Fluff, Gen, and that's all, but mostly - Freeform, feuilly x fall, feuilly x his drink, fluffy fluff, modern!AU, some background vague E/R
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-22 20:29:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21082628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WilwyWaylan/pseuds/WilwyWaylan
Summary: It's fall, and fall means Pumpkin Spice Latte time. Except that the world ddoesn't seem to want to let Feuilly have some.





	Pumpkin Spice Latte

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jesvisfarovche](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesvisfarovche/gifts).

Feuilly likes fall. It shouldn't surprise anyone that it's his favourite season, and not just because of his hair. There's something about the air getting colder, crisp in the morning, the sun shining on the afternoons. He likes the sound of the rain on the sidewalks, even if he has to jump to avoid the puddles because his twenty-times-repaired shoes tend to get his feet wet. He loves the aesthetic, too, the grey, rolling skies, the colorful leaves composing a thick carpet that cracks under his feet. Everything is gold and orange and red and brown, the contrast charms his heart and eyes. Really, he loves fall, so much that he counts the days until the fronds start turning. He can't wait for summer to be over ; he hates summer anyway, the sun is burning, he can't cool himself, and he turns red at the slightest provocation. From May to October, he counts the days until fall comes.

He knows, before even opening his eyes this morning, that fall is here. It's not just the coldness rampant in the flat, that makes him shiver as soon as he pokes a foot out of the shelter of his duvet. There's something in the air. Something that smells a bit like the smoke of dead leaves burning. Or maybe like pumpkin. He doesn't know, but there's one thing he's certain of : fall is there.

He dives in his clothes, digs out a large, copper sweater from his wardrobe and throws it over his head. He's knitted it himself, years ago, and it stretched so much it goes almost down to his knees, the sleeves falling past his hands. It's his favorite. A long scarf that loops three times around his neck and shoulders, a beanie in dark tones, and fingerless gloves complete his outfit. All hand-knit, of course, because one has to keep himself as warm as possible in his difficult times. That, and it keeps his hands busy, so it's win-win. Usually, he takes care of eating something before leaving even when he's late, because one should never start his day on an empty stomach, but not today. Today is a special day. He jumps in his boots, and out he goes, bouncing all the way. He doesn't skip down the road, but he really, really feels like it. Today is the first day of fall, and it only means one thing. It's pumpkin latte time.

The line in the coffee shop is luckily not too long. Good. It's not that Feuilly is an impatient man, but special fall treat or not, he still needs to be in class at 8 AM, and if there's one thing he really, really hates, it's being late. He doesn't mutter under his breath or groan or protest, because he hates when other people do it, and he treats people as he wants them to treat him. He'll cope with it. It's not just for ballast in case of hard wind that he keeps a book in his bag. He pulls it out, starts to read, and tries to ignore the minutes ticking by as much as he can.

Ten minutes pass, and he's starting to feel a bit nervous. But there are only four people in front of him, and he still has some time. Everything is fine, he thinks, and goes back to his book, looking over the page sometimes to check on the state of the line or look at people around. He loves loking at people when he does have the time to do so. They are always so interesting, so different, it's a great inspiration, and very fun to draw when he has time. Like the lady with the butterfly-shaped glasses, reading at a table, or the kid, no older than eight, who's coloring her book, her tongue sticking out. Or the cute, blond barista mixing the drinks. He looks very interesting to draw, with his pretty face, blue eyes, and long hair barely gathered in a ponytail. There's even a guy he knows from his drawing classes, sitting in the corner, a scruffy dude wearing an old green hoddie with paint stained and assorted jeans. He's sprawled on a seat, scribbling in his notebook. Not at all in a hurry. Good, this means that Feuilly is not in a hurry either. No need for panic.

Ten minutes become twenty. Then thirty. And still, Feuilly hasn't been able to order. Now he is _really_ nervous. The time of his first lesson is running closer and closer. He's going to need to run, but he can still make it if he catches every subway without waiting and manages to run through the whole Châtelet station. A glance at the guy in green - Grant ? something like that - shows him that the guy hasn't moved. Either he likes speeding through overcrowded tunnels and playing the obstacle course with hundreds of other hurried people, or he's ditching the first class. Which, now that Feuilly thinks of it, happens often enough that he doesn't remember seeing him early in the studio, and barely recalls his name. Great, so it means he's definitly late. If he orders right now, three minutes to make his drink, two to the nearest subway entrance.... He can make it. Barely.

Well he could, if there wasn't just one problem. A problem wearing a pretentious plaid jacket, expensive glasses and an as expensive haircut, and who's currently ranting at the barista about a drink that's supposed to include two doses of sprinkles, one of whipped cream, half a dose of caramel and a dozen of other things that Feuilly is not keeping track of because he doesn't care. And apparently, the barista didn't either, and it seems to be an offense worthy of death or at least ranting and whining for hours on end while the barista tries to remake it following the specifications of the annoying hipster. It's been going for a quarter hour at least, and Feuilly's patience is running thin. And judging by the muttering behind him, he's not the only one.

The guy finally takes his drink, tastes it... and promptly dashes Feuilly's hopes by starting complaining again, way louder this time. The barista looks ready to throttle him, and it's probably only his professionnal care that stops him from jumping over the counter. Well, seeing as the other guy is leaning closer and closer while berating him, he'll probably won't even need to move. Feuilly should be on his way, but he can't just let someone abuse a worker like this, it doesn't sit right with him. He taps the guy on the shoulder.

\- Hey, you.... he starts, but he can't go farther than that.

The other guy whips around, almost headbutting him in the process.

\- What the fuck do you want ? he barks. I'm busy.

Feuilly ostensibly wipes the spit from his face.

\- Busy abusing that poor guy ?

\- That poor guy, as you're saying, is an idiot who can't even make a simple drink right. And he's going to make it until it's right. Fuck off.

Feuilly is tempted to tell him where he can stick his "simple drink" and everything else, but he really wants to come back here. So he just raises his hands in what he hopes is an appeasing gesture, and says in his most soothing voice.

\- I'm just saying that screaming at him won't make your drink better or faster. Also, you're holding the line, and...

He shouldn't have said that, he realizes too late. The guy's face turns an interesting shade of red, and now that he's standing right in front of him, Feuilly realizes that he's way taller than him, and bigger too. This is definitly going at the top of the list of his most stupid decisions. But he's not going to back down, because that guy is an asshole and needs to be brought down a little. Also he can't let the barista handle that alone, even if he has to admit that the blond looks at least determined enough to take the guy on. But he's built like a twig, and Feuilly knows very well that no amount of righteous fury can replace a lack of strength. They'll end up swatted like flies, and the barista probably jobless. Not a good outcome.

The guy surges forwards, grabs him by his scarf. Feuilly is already getting ready for the punch, mourning his teeth and calculating dentist bills. He can fight, of course, and hold his own in a fight better than most, but he probably won't get out of this unscathed. Or not banned.

Someone suddenly appears at his side, stoping the guy in his tracks. It's the dude in green from earlier. He's standing beside them, hands in his pockets, looking all the way like the guy who doesn't have a care in the world. But he's taller than Feuilly and the barista, and from up close, Feuilly can see that his shoulders are broader, his sleeves rolled up on muscular forearms. Tattooed, too, but Feuilly rather dwells on the muscular part. Green Guy looks at the annoying guy, at Feuilly who feels like a squirrel caught in headlights, at the blond barista who looks really angry and maybe a bit worried.

\- Now, he says, don't you think you've been annoying us enough ?

The guy wants to answer, but the one in green doesn't let him.

\- I suggest you take your drink of questionnable taste and leave without any further fuss. You have places to be, and we don't want your ass around anymore.

\- And who's gonna make me, punk ? You, maybe ?

Green Guy's smile grows larger.

\- I find it really funny that you call me "punk" in that derisive tone, which shows that, for you, being punk in an insult. But as you can clearly see it on my hoodie and.... maybe the jeans do, but clearly not the hat, I do not comform to the punk aesthetic, so your designation of punk might refer to my behavior. Seeing as the punk movement was, and still is in all his branchs, a movement that opposes the very strict, too rigid societal expectations put on young people by a repressive authority, one may tend to think that you think opposing the paternalist imposition on our rights and conducts is shameful, and one should follow the laws put upon us to a T. I find it quite funny, seeing as you're currently the one breaking, if not the law, then all the rules of proper conduct and I'm the one asking for you to calm down and leave everyone, that gentleman, the barista, to go on about their lives without having to endure your temper tantrum. Something tells me that you're closer of that "punk" to me. But I wouldn't dare casting this on you, this would be a waste of a good punk on you. Now, if you please, we probably would be all better if we parted ways here. Good day, my good man.

The man looks progressively more confused as the tirade goes on. He's not the only one ; Feuilly has kind of a hard time following, and the other onlookers seem amused, perplexed, or a mix of the two. He still looks angry, but he's lowered his fist, and he looks at Green Guy as if trying to remember why he was so angry before the man cut in. Finally, he lets go of Feuilly's scarf, straightens his jacket, grabs the drink he has criticized, and storms out in what he thinks is the dignified pace of the guy who's fed up with that nonsense.

Feuilly arranges his scarf - it hasn't been stretched, thank God - and turns to Green Guy, who's all satisfied smile.

\- Thank you, err....

\- Grantaire. I'm the guy who sleeps in still life class, usually.

\- Right, I remember you. I'm Feuilly.

\- The guy with the origami cranes.

Feuilly doesn't know if he should be flattered that Grantaire remembers him, or annoyed to be forever cast as "the guy with the origami cranes". He opts for flattered. After all, it was several months ago, it probably made an impression.

\- So, Grantaire asks, pushing Feuilly towards the counter, what do you think of getting something to drink and celebrate the day I out-annoyed an annoying customer ?

\- I would love to, Feuilly says with a pinch of regret, but I really need to go. I just wanted a pumpkin spice latte, and...

A tall cup appears in front of him. And judging by the smell, it really is a pumpkin spice latte, showing that the barista is either a mind-reader or the fastest he's ever seen. Feuilly reaches for his wallet, but the blond stops him.

\- It's on the house. Thank you for coming to my help.

He flattens all Feuilly's attempts to thank him with a gesture, and goes back to his drinks. Feuilly takes a sip of his drink - it's heavenly, a perfect latte, just sweet enough with a spicy hint -, toasts Grantaire with it.

\- Are you coming ? he asks. We may not be too late for class.

\- Alas, my friend, I must leave you to go alone. Still life may lack in liveliness for me, and the only advantage I may see to it is being close enough to steal some of those delicious models. Which puts me in front of the class when all I want is to sleep in the back. So no. Besides... he adds with a glance in the direction of the blond barista, I may try to push the advantage my supreme victory gave me, and pursue other endeavors...

He walks to the counter and smiles at the barista, who sends him a look that's not entirely distant. Feuilly looks at them for a second, then strolls out with a smile. He'll have to run, and his professor will probably scold him for that, but it's okay. He may have made some friends, assured that he'll be welcome in that coffee shop, and he got his pumpkin drink. For a few moments, everything is perfect. It's finally fall, and it's going to be a good day.


End file.
